Separate but wonderful

There is a fine line between living my life through my children and attempting to give them what I never had.  A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with an ex-inlaw about the kids.  Her daughter, almost Amy’s age, is now in cheerleading, she boasted.  During the next few minutes where I simply nodded along with the converation, since this particular person tends to dominate, she brought up that someone had told her she seemed to be the type of mother that tried to live her life through her children.  She laughed and said that was impossible since she *hated* cheerleading.

I have absolutely nothing against cheerleading.  If my daughter wanted to pursue it, I would be behind her completely.  However, she’s not that type.  She’s a brilliant child, yet her gifts don’t necessarily lay in athletics but art and music instead.  If someone wanted to point out the similarities, I would freely admit to being in band at her age, but playing a different instrument from the two she knows.  I was good, but I imagine I could have been better, and I never pictured making it career.

My daughter was laying on the couch the other night, and almost out of the blue she said, “I’m going to be famous when I get older.”  I told her that it was a lot of hard work to achieve her goals.  She said, “I know, but I’m just telling you.”  And instead of trying to bring her down to my level of pessimism disguised as realism, I simply told her, “I know you are.  You’re a talented person that can do anything you put your mind to.”  And she smiled at me.

I have no idea what the future holds for her.  But I don’t want to take away her dreams, or put her into a mold.  I don’t want her to live out what may have been my dreams once upon a time, just to get even with the world.  I want her to live a full, happy, productive life, to reach for the stars.  I suppose most non-narcissistic parents come to point where they know their children are not a part of them despite coming into this world through them.  That they are separate, wonderfully unique beings with goals and feelings that won’t mirror that of their parents.  I know today that these parts of my children are not a rejection or rebellion – they are simply their personalities and not mine.  My job as their mother is to embrace these differences and love them for who they truly are, and not for an image I might project onto them. 

PMS Post 2

It seems my food posts were forming on a regular basis, so I decided just to call a spade a spade.  I had a doctor’s appointment this morning for bloodwork, since it’s been a loooong time since anyone has stabbed with me a needle for the purpose of subtraction instead of addition.  This meant no breakfast, no convenience store white chocolate capp, no orange koolaid to swallow the morning meds.  So last night was a bit of a binge for me, I’ll admit it.  After my chunky soup, since I’m still not up to a ton of chewing, I sought out the skim lacy swiss cheese to wrap around the shaved turkey I bought at the deli earlier.   And then I kept pacing back to the kitchen during commercials, even though nothing looked interesting.  I wasn’t hungry, but the thought of deprivation even though I’m not usually hungry when I first get up was sending me into national geographic mode, thinking I needed to bulk up for the lean months ahead.

The only test they ran there at the office was cholesterol, and if you’re interested, bad & triglycerides were normal.  Good cholesterol was low, but that tends to run in my family.  I was told to exercise more and eat more fiber.  I’ll be hearing about my blood count soon, but until then, I’ll pretend that’s normal too.  And I almost kissed the scale in the office.  I’ll attribute it to all the dental stuff I’ve been through this past month, but I’m down about nine pounds from my last visit. 

Good results, weight loss, deprivation, and hormones equal FAST FOOD DAY!  On the way back to the office I picked up an egg & cheese taquito and sweet tea from Whataburger, and then a few hours later, picked up Amy to take her to Sonic with me.  I forgot my zantac at the house, so I might be in tears a few hours from now after the regular chili cheese dog comes back to haunt me.  Amy and I shared a large order of cheesecake bites also.  Heredity be damned today! 

I feel better now.

(No french fries were harmed in the making of this post.)

Um, popular?

I have been shamelessly courted by VH1’s I Love series.  I’ve seen both 70s series, all three 80s, only one of the 90s runs, and last night, started on the I Love the New Millennium set.  (I had to triple check my spelling of millennium btw)  And referring back to yesterday’s post on bedtimes, this was another special event, as 2002 came on right at eight, the year my son was born, so I let him stay up a bit longer than usual to get a pop culture glimpse into his birth year along with his 13 year old sister and me.

However, a bit more than an hour before bedtime, at the end of I Love 2000, there was a segment on Cast Away, starring Tom Hanks. If you haven’t seen the ending yet this many years later, and still want it to be a surprise, stop reading.  The funny people started commenting on how Helen Hunt’s character was married off by the time Tom Hanks’ character, Chuck, had returned, and someone on screen shouted out the word, “WHORE!”

My eyes widened and I glanced sideways at the five year old.  And he caught me, which brought about this wonderfully uncomfortable conversation: 

Brody: What does that mean?

Mommy: It’s a grown up word, and not something you should say at school, or anywhere else really you shouldn’t use words that you can’t define.

Brody: Ok, but what does it mean?

I was trapped.  The smug smile on my teenagers face taunted me to get out of this conversation without stuttering or blushing.

Mommy: Ok, a whore is someone…someone…a girl….

Brody: (flashed his patented innocent attentive look)

Mommy: A girl who has a lot of boyfriends!  But you shouldn’t use that word to describe a girl with a lot of boyfriends.  You should probably just use “popular.”

I gave a satisfied nod, which prompted the teenager’s first raised eyebrow

Mommy: (to Amy, under her breath) Chup!

Amy: (stifled giggle)

Mommy: (to Amy, louder) Chup!

Amy: (the giggles break through)

Mommy: (to Amy, relinquishing what’s left of her maternal dignity): You’re fired!

Bedtime: then and now

Picture a typical 70s living room: tan couches, wicker & glass coffee table to compliment the large wicker peacock chair, a wall and a half of built-in bookshelves loaded with albums, german steins, imitation asian statues, and my father’s last can of unopened Billy Beer.  The orangish colors in the old polaroids even themselves mimic some of the color schemes of that time.  Picture me, the smallest kid in my class, with my Star Wars figurines, iron-on rainbow exclamation point tshirt, and mork-from-ork suspenders.  I fit there, don’t I?

As a child, I hated bedtime.  I could make a bazillion excuses why I should stay up, half of which required me to pass through our idyllic living room to the kitchen as my parents were entertaining, serving her sorority sisters pina coladas or his hunting partners another michelob.  I wanted to be part of their jokes.  I wanted to wear my eye shadow like “Aunt” Ruby.  I wanted to learn to play dominoes for the wonderful clacking sounds.  But my sisters and I were always sent to bed what I still to this day consider unreasonably early to give the grownups their “me” time.  I would usually get caught somewhere other than my bed, the ends of my long brown hair hanging in damp spikes from playing in the tub with my action figures or mom’s tupperware, decked out in a one of dad’s tshirts that we got to wear to bed.  I had to have the door cracked open at night, to have some sort of light shine into my room, so that *things* wouldn’t get to me as I tried to sleep.  And to try to hear what the grownups were laughing about.

Now picture my living room, if you can: the passthrough area between the bedrooms, brown microfiber couches, the coffee table I spray painted blue & silver (yes, what a fun day that was!) being used to hold the larger tv purchased thanks to this years tax refund, brown & shimmery turquoise curtains, and books strewn everywhere.  Some days I swear it looks like the back room at Half Price Books.  Anyway, my son gets sent to bed at eight, unless something really important is happening, which could be as simple as watching the end of ET a few weeks ago.  He likes his bedroom door open too, but I’ve only heard him tell me of bad dreams a handful of times in his life.  I might be jinxing myself here, but he rarely balks when I say it’s bedtime, though in exchange he cheerfully greets the world earlier in the morning than I can. 

Our bedroom doors are a straight line across the cluttered living room.  The older tv now sits on the desk in my room.  Last night, I had on Star Wars again, thanks to Spike catering to the masculine viewers showing one movie in the saga on a near regular basis each Sunday.  And since I tend to tune into Star Wars any time I can, no matter which movie it is and no matter how many times I have seen it before, I had The Phantom Menace set as background as I read.  (I had started Plain Truth by Jodi Picoult yesterday at the pool, and it’s been a bit hard to put down). What I didn’t realize until Amy came in a few minutes after Brody’s bedtime, was that the tv in my room was directly across from the head of Brody’s bed. She suggested I close my door, since he insists his be left open, and he had made sure it was open enough to get a clear view of Darth Maul’s final battle.

I actually started grinning. I could so easily put myself back thirty years, to the tiny kid struggling to be included, even if it meant hanging on the side of the couch slightly out of view to catch a glimpse of the action. In the end, I decided to open my door a bit more to give him the best view I could. I figured, hey, he was in bed, and quiet, and a good kid, why not make bed time as easy as possible. By the time the movie ended and I was ready to put down my book for the evening, I went to check on him, kissed his sleeping cheek, and tucked his Galactic Heroes comforter up to his shoulders.

 

RIP George Carlin, 1937-2008

Rufus, see you in the future. 

Why I say thank you as I fall asleep

My life has not always been easy.  I sometimes wonder if before I was born I chose the obstacles to conquer, paying in advance for a peaceful next life, or as payment after the fact for an easier last life.  But this isn’t about the bad things that have happened to me, or the drama I created in my own life, but about the wonderful things I have to be thankful for.

There is that paranoid part of me that wonders if by sharing the nice parts of my life I won’t somehow be jinxing myself to lose them or to have something bad happen.  Perhaps it comes from being told not to brag, or that if let someone around me know that I have nice things they may take them.  I don’t surround myself with those types of people these days if I can, so I feel more comfortable sharing the positives.

My children are the light of my world.  Before I had my daughter, I wasn’t a very good person.  I was whiney, selfish, and immature, looking to get high and get laid as a way to escape facing the parts of myself I thought would overcome and destroy me.  I remember one of the very last times I smoked dope, my daughter was two weeks old.  My husband said that he would stay straight in case she woke up, but he didn’t and she did.  So, high as can be, I sat on our couch holding a screaming infant, scared to death.  I looked into her eyes, and for the first time ever, saw how much they looked like my own father’s, who had been emotionally absent from my sisters and me due to three tours of Vietnam and his subsequent battle with alcoholism.  I couldn’t do that to her, she was so new, so precious, deserving only the best this life could give her.  Something changed in me that day, and I don’t regret it for a moment.

As I lay in bed at the end of the day, I don’t necessarily pray as many do.  My views of God and who might be listening tend to be a bit different than most.  But I do believe that if you put a positive energy out in the universe you will see more of a positive around you.  So I say thank you for allowing me to guide these two wonderful creatures, and please protect them as I sleep.  And help me be a better mother tomorrow than I was today. 

How much responsibility do you have to act on your suspicions?

My entry on Munchausen’s by Internet  was intended as a warning, a tie-in to my research on narcissism thanks to my experience with my mother and ex-husband.  It wasn’t intended to be a personal slam against the two people used as examples.  However, I know some of my readers know to whom I’m referring, and have some set opinions about the second person in particular.  Where I believe everyone is entitled to have an opinion, since this is my blog, my words, my experiences I’m baring, and although I do have an open mind, I’m pretty set in my opinions regarding some issues.  Protecting myself against narcissistic vampires is one.  I have had trust issues that I still deal with, for example, trusting men, but I am getting a lot better overall.  I find myself smiling more, making friends, and letting some of the protective walls down that were set in place to gaurd my children and I from attack. 

One of the comments on that entry brought up an interesting mental debate in my head.  “Becky,” who is familiar with the person I referenced second in the Munchausen’s post, mentioned that she was concerned that this person might also have a case of Munchausen’s by Proxy.  Not knowing this person in real life, I have no way of knowing how much of her drama is truth, how much is fabricated, or how much is true but by her own creation.  I know my ex-husband was so adept at lying he would convince himself, and eventually some of the things he believed would become true.  My mental debate was what responsibility to I have, or anyone, to take action in real life for situations that would seem to need intervention.  If you believe someone is getting donations for a false illness, do you have a responsibility to notify the authorities where they live?  If you believe that someone you know from online is abusing their children, how much proof should you need before you bring in outside resources? 

Any thoughts?

Iron Chef America was the pits

I’ve mentioned a million reasons why my teeth are not as good as I would like them to be, but I would like to bring to light one that only a few people know about.  On Halloween a few years back, my boss and I ordered these yummy muffaletta sandwichs from Jason’s Deli there in Addison.  I was only a couple bites in when I came down chomping force on an olive pit, immediately splitting the bottom molar.  I guess we didn’t notice the crack in the top one since it wasn’t as obvious at the time. 

Monday, my dentist completed the top root canal, though not the crown yet.  Tuesday, instead of driving two hours one way to see the closest endodontist on our insurance plan to have them re-do the root canal on the tooth under it, my dentist here pulled it.  I’ve probably said it before, but I feel like I’ve been punched in the jaw.  The left side of my face is swollen and sore, and the right side is just plain sore from it being propped open.  The only semi-solid food I’ve had to eat the past day and a half were two Kroger brand butterscotch pudding cups, and they were soooo good.  I’ve been taking in a lot of liquids in un-soda form *pout* and not talking too much.  I know this will be over soon.  This is what I get for being without dental insurance for as long as I have. 

And what does this have to do with Iron Chef?  As Brody and I snuggled up to watch Sunday night after a long drive home, following a fight with my ex outside the Texas Burger in Buffalo and a point of a half an hour where the air conditioner froze up in the car, guess what the secret ingredient was? 

Olives. 

Eminem makes white people angry

I’m not always a rational person.  Especially when hormones and sleep deprivation play a part.  And I have a rather eclectic taste in my music choices, swinging from musicals to rap music.  When I was pregnant with my son, I had three cds on rotation whenever I got into the car: Home, by the Dixie Chicks, Appetite for Destruction, by Guns N Roses, and The Eminem Show. Quite the mix, huh? I was so enthralled with the Eminem show that on the way to the hospital, where most laboring mothers would be listening to Norah Jones, Enya, or sounds of the rainforest, I demanded my ex play track 3, Business, while gripping the underside of the dashboard.

The movie 8 Mile came out in November, 2002. My son was a few weeks old, so I tucked him into his little car seat, loaded him and his sister up, and brought them to my baby sister’s for a few hours. My ex and I were going to the movies, alone, for the first time in who knows when. I was huge, tired, and leaking milk, but I really wanted to see this silly movie. 

The theater was packed but we managed to find two seats together.  However, sitting in the row directly behind us was a woman with probably six or seven kids, including the youngest looking one, probably around 5 years old, that was in the seat directly behind me.  During the course of the movie, my seat was pushed, kicked, and even leaned on repeatedly, and this little girl could not keep quiet.  Not that I expect a 5 yo to be able to, even if she were watching Finding Nemo.  I really couldn’t even tell you about most of the movie, I was so irritated and distracted.  I kept glaring over my shoulder at the mother figure, and she would shush the girl and pull her back to her seat.  By the end of the movie, I was livid.

As the lights were coming up, and people were crowding out, I marched up to the usher and asked him to get his manager.  I told the manager I wanted my money back for my ticket since I really didn’t get to see the movie.  By this time the mother figure and her van-load had caught up with me.  I didn’t actually want to talk to her, since I thought it was terribly irresponsible for her to bring a kid that young into that movie in the first place.  She apologized and told the manager she didn’t know her daughter was being a distraction.  I glared, and asked her, then why did you keep pulling her back to her seat each time I turned around.  The manager offered to let my ex and I sit through the next showing.  I told him that wasn’t possible, and again glared at the woman, saying that my children were at the SITTER’S.  Then the woman herself offered to reimburse me for my tickets, to which I declined, (again, not very politely) because if she couldn’t afford a SITTER, how could she afford a second set of tickets? 

My postpartum rage drew a little bit of a crowd.  I’m not necessarily proud of my behavior, but really, I can’t imagine taking kids that age to a rated R movie.  I wouldn’t even play the cd when my then 7yo was in the car.  But what sticks out today about the entire experience, was the reaction of the bystanders, one in particular who’s skin tone, its safe to say, was quite a bit darker than mine.  I can now look back and laugh, when I hear his words from that night:

“Man, Eminem sure does make white people angry!”

So what does a single mom do in her down time?

I know I’m fortunate.  My sister is raising three kids with little help, and doesn’t get a night off.  Matter of fact, due to my niece’s medical issues, she has to be on-hand during the day and work nights.  She’s on call 24/7.  I know I’m a lucky woman to have my children spend time with the other side of their family for a week here and there.

But after a couple days, I get bored.  No kidding.  I don’t do bars – loud noise, smoke, and anything past about one drink leave me irritable.  I also don’t look at my week alone as a time to spend money on myself, money that I would normally buy kid-staples with, since finances are tight anyway.  Those funds will roll into the extra required to feed a teenager during the summer.  And so far this week the pool has been out due to a handful of storms. 

So I’ve played Mario Party 8 for three evenings in a row.  I’ve beat Bowser twice now. 

I started reading Odd Mom Out by Jane Porter and tossed it across the room after 80 pages of being beat over the head by the fact that she likes motorcycles and her daughter wishes she was normal.  And that was only on Day 2 of the book  No way I would read another 300 plus pages of that dribble. 

So I started on Blood Orange by Drusilla Campbell instead.  We’ll see how that goes.

I went to Target to buy Archer Farms ginger beer.  Mmmm.

I took the very old flea collar off Sutton, since he’s been indoors for the past year after he came back from my ex’s house.  I’m telling you, after giving him a good scratching, I *own* him now.  It’s to the point where he’s been tempted to join me in the bathtub he loves me so much.

I’ve finally started watching Firefly – The Complete Series how many years since it’s been off the air?  Now I understand what the fuss was all about.  I’m quite impressed.

And I’m still eating soft foods.  So I set the big rice cooker to go this weekend, and have just been digging in my rice supply and adding fun things to it for dinner, such as Snoopy Furikake with little Snoopy heads!

Other than that, it’s been very, very quiet the past few days.